Deductions
by eszabo1
Summary: Sherlock and John are onto another case- a dead man with a mysterious symptom and no leads. But things get complicated, and soon they are in danger neither of them could expect. Johnlock, some action.


Chapter 1

The taxi cab swerved the streets of London, the bright lights of the city swirling around us. I was in a cab with Sherlock, one arm leaning on the door. My gaze was fixed on him, who was muttering incoherent things under his breath and clenching and unclenching a white-knuckled fist. His eyes, his icy amazing eyes, were staring into what he called his "mind palace". I will never know what goes on inside that brain- how everything fit together, what made him Sherlock.

He felt my gaze and gave me a quick glance. As it always did, my heart skittered a little in my chest. I looked down at my feet and wondered when it all started.

When we first met, I never knew that I would be attracted to Sherlock Holmes. First off, I was a straight man- have been all my life. But whenever I was alone, my thoughts drifted to that man. And whenever he touched me, whether it was handing me the paper or walking past, I felt a small jolt of electricity run down my spine. It was strange for me to feel these emotions after all those years of unfeelingness, but I couldn't deny it- Sherlock Holmes was just different.

I was good at keeping my emotions hidden, hidden behind the impassive face of just plain John who never got a second glance. It it turned out to come in handy- if I couldn't have kept my emotions hidden, then my life would be a lot different.

But I could never have him, and he could never love me, because he was Serlock, and damn it all for me having fallen in love with this creature.

The cabbie slammed the brakes, and Sherlock sat up straighter. We got out and strode into the police building.

Lestrade was at his desk, looking over his appears and muttering something. He tucked some papers into a pale yellow Manila folder and looked up, weary. His eyes were rimmed by dark bruises. It was clear he had had a long night.

"Thank god," he said. "I really need some coffee," he muttered.

Sherlock rested his gaze on Lestrade. "What's the case?" he snapped. "Murder, you said?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sherlock, and it is absolutely perplexing. I was hoping something in your crazy head would be able to untangle it."

Something lit in Sherlock's eyes. "Perplexing?" I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. His eyes flick to me, then back at Lestrade.

"Location of death?"

"344 Lewis Avenue."

"Any possible suspects?"

"None. Well maybe one, but he isn't very likely."

Sherlock paused. "Cause of death?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Nothing but a ring of green around the neck."

Sherlock's mind gears whirred. "Any medical significance?"

"N-"

"Freak. You're here."

Lestrade was cut off by Sally, striding into the office with a clipboard in her hand. Her brown wavy curls were fastened by a black barrette in the back. She placed- more like threw- the clipboard with some sort of chart onto Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade threw her an exasperated look. "Donovan, what have I said about entering my office?" She put her hands up.

"I know, not my fault," she says. Lestrade looked back at Sherlock.

"I think it's right time to go to the crime scene."

...

It was raining outside- the kind of rain that makes you wish for a cup of tea and a warm plate of biscuits. I turned my collar up and glanced unconsciously at John. A large drop hit his nose, and he scrunched up his face. I quickly glanced away before that blue gaze could land on me. It was unnerving the way strange thoughts sometimes slipped into my mind. Ones about John Watson.

But I thought nothing of it, really.

We turned the corner, rushing against the full force of the wind. The cars sped past us, spraying water at our ankles. There was no sun in the sky to reflect off of the metal, only the tiny wavy spots of the streetlamp's light. No stars shone in the sky.

We got to the corner of a major intersection, and I quickly checked my mental map of the streets of London. Lewis Avenue was a small street off of this one, a small street with rich, fat houses. Rich and fat just like their occupants.

We approached the house- it was tired-looking and large, with wet brown walls and ivory shutters. A series of police cars were parked around it, their lights flashing blue and red, and the signature crime scene tape marked the perimeters.

Anderson strode up to us, his eyes narrowed. His greasy black hair was matted from the rain. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear.

"Go on," he said, giving the house a nod. "Do your magic." I couldn't tell if the last comment was sarcastic or not. He morioned to the door. I looked at John.

"Ready?" Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed a pair of latex gloves and tossed them in his direction. Then, opening the door, (built in eighteenth century, solid wood, no sign of wear), I walked into the unknown.

Floor creaking. A large foyer with white walls, recently painted, polished floorboards, maybe last two months, means that either the family hired someone to polish them or they have a personal worker. A small crayon mark on the wall- a child, maybe two years old.

I crossed the threshold, stopping to rub at the crayon. Then I saw the problem- the streak was too straight, too hard for a baby's grip to place. I closed my eyes and imagined the force, equations of the pressure- "Was anyone at the premises near the time of the police arrival?"

I could hear Anderson sigh. "Not that we know of, besides the killer." He paused. "The door was open, though, careless mistake, even though it didn't do much good identfying a suspect."

"Did the victim have any children? Grandchildren?" I eyed the crayon mark once more, then got to my feet. I strode into the kitchen.

"Yes, but they are in the care of an babysitter for the weekend. A two year old and a six year old." I could hear the pride in his voice for sniffing out that fact.

A babysitter? Not likely. If I was right, then the killer wanted to place the crayon mark to hint that the children have lived here recently. A false trail. What really happened to the children?

Suddenly, a gust of wind made the tree branch patter against the window. Then my mouth broke into a wide grin. "This is a good one, all right." I could already feel my mind beginning to awaken, ready to analyse whatever information came at me. My vision sharpened around the edges, crystal clear. I smoothed down my coat and marched up the stairs.

Yellow tape covered off the room of the murder, some officers still lingering, identical in light blue scrubs and flashlights in hand. I let the insignificant details slip into a corner of my mind, soon to be deleted. And then I pushed open the door.

The first impression of the room was that it was dark. I narrowed my gaze, analyzing the smells, every creak of the floor, anything out of place. The window, still open, was letting a gust of wind blow through, billowing the drab green curtains like a cape. The room was decked in shadows, but I could make out a body slumped on the floorboards in the upper right side of the room.

The cool air blew onto my face. I crouched. Let nothing distract you, Sherlock, I told myself, sensing John's prescence behind me. I was having to tell myself that more and more recently; it annoyed me, to say the least.

I drew in my breath sharply as I took in the corpse. An average old man, salty, curly hair, pudgy build. Dark tan slacks, recently ironed, old button down shirt that was straining at the stomach. Veins stood out under the ghostly pale skin, and the eyes were closed. A cane lay sprawled to the side; light wood, plastic handle.

Around his neck was a prominent ring, like the rocks floating around Saturn. It seemed to glow slightly, the emerald colors circling around the center of the neck, under the larynx, about two inches thick.

There was not a drop of blood to be seen, not a speck of crimson around the body.

I felt slightly dizzy as I stood up, the force of coming back from my mind palace strong. My vision blurred, and I noticed a hand on my shoulder. I collected all of the facts about the man, tidbits and black numbers, onto a sturdy shelf in my library. "Yes, John?" I snapped, turning my eyes to his figure. I immediately felt bad, seeing a slight flinch on his features, and lowered my tone. "Do you have a question?"

"Yes," he said, his back straight. He withdrew his hand, bringing it to his side and forming it into a fist. "How do you think the ring- on his neck- got there?"

I bounced a little in my crouched position, the thrill of the of the situation like a shock to my system. "Obviously not painted. There are no obvious signs of asphyxiation, but strangling marks is a theory. Some sort of poison that collects-" I paused and started to pace. "No, no, no." I knelt down again, something in the front of my brain starting to numb. I felt my senses sharpen, my pulse increase. My thoughts ran like a car speeding down the highway. All because something, something impossible, was getting in the way of my deductions. Someone fooled the great Sherlock Holmes, and whoever it was had better watch out.

**A/N: Hello, this is my first attempt at Sherlock fanfic! Let me know what you think and click the little review button down there! Update coming soon, I hope.**


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